All I Needed Now Was A Hug
by IWasTheMadOne
Summary: Three years have passed since Reichenbach and John returns to 221B Baker street when a surprise visitor arrives. Bit of light JohnLock, maybe a kiss. Rated T because, well I have no idea.


**This is my first attempt at fanfiction so I'm new to this and it feels amazing, I can see why so many people write it.**

**After finally getting round to writing some, loads of ideas have been swimming around in my head and I plan to act upon them when I find the time.**

**For now I hope you enjoy this.**  
**All reviews will be much appreciated.**

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Three years had passed since Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and my best friend, had jumped from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Every year I returned to 221B Baker Street and despite the pain it brought me, it provided a strange comfort. I would sit in my armchair and watch the space where my best friend would either sit or do his crouchy thing where he'd sit on the back.

I'd remember the times we'd spent there, good or bad. From our first visit the day after we'd met, to the severed head in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall. The incident with the American shaped hole in the window could almost push me to a smile. The flat reminded me of good times, but now they were gone and it brought me a deep pain. Others could miss him but I had lost something, part of myself, part of my very soul seemed to have been torn from me.

All the crazy science equipment was gone but everything else had been left untouched. Every crease in his chair, the unexplained gash on the table, even the Union Jack cushion still sat where he had last placed it.

Mrs Hudson must have had a clean because whereas the dust should have lain thick, there was only a light coat that would have formed over a day or two. She hadn't rented out the flat to anyone else. I don't think she did so for my sake, but rather she couldn't bring herself to do it. She always reminded us she wasn't our housekeeper and she wasn't, she was more like our mother.

My reminiscing was interrupted by the creak of a stair. I rose from my chair, picked up my stick and stood to face the door.

Slowly the door opened, and from it emerged the figure of Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly my head and heart became an emotional battlefield. There was joy, anger and shock, as well as feeling bewildered and to be perfectly honest, very pissed off.

We both stood there for what felt like a week. I just stared at him in disbelief. I thought he could be a ghost but he had opened the door and had done so tentatively, not being sure of what my reaction may be. He was toying with his gloves, glancing at me without making eye contact before returning his gaze to his coat buttons.

I had intended to walk over to him but instead I ran. All signs of my limp fled, I however, did quite the opposite. Then, stood directly in front of him, I allowed my eyes to flit over his features, to be sure of him, before grabbing the lapel of that coat and pulling until his lips captured mine.

Sherlock seemed a little startled by my actions. I thought he would pull away but instead accepted the kiss and reciprocated it. His mouth closing over mine, where it seemed to fit perfectly. I raised my hand to his neck drawing him to me, closing the space between us. My other hand spread across his chest I could feel the warmth of his skin through his purple shirt. He was no ghost. I had my Sherlock back, and hopefully for good.

I had strangely enjoyed the spontaneous moment my body had flung me into. As I broke away, my thoughts gathered and once again my body acted before my brain had a chance to consider the situation.

"YOU BASTARD!"

I threw my fist into his face. _Stuff the nose and teeth, _I thought as my hand hit his pale, porcelain skin. Sherlock must have expected it as he shifted slightly to lessen the blow. He could have avoided it completely, but instead he chose to allow me to physically pour my emotions onto him. The pain in my hand was nothing compared to what I felt watching him fall from that roof, or had endured every day since.

I need him close again, just to feel his presence.

All I wanted now was a hug.

All I needed now was a hug.

Once again I pulled Sherlock in close and there we stayed. I was clinging to him and I never wanted to let go. My hands clutching and clawing at his soft coat as I buried my head in his shoulder. I breathed in his wonderful smell. I could feel his long, slender fingers on my back, the warmth of his chest seeping through to my core. His dark, silky, soft curls brushed against my neck and each breath carried the words 'I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry.'

We stood holding each other for several minutes. Usually Sherlock liked his personal space (though he never had a problem with invading mine) but that went out the window. This was different.

I stepped back so I could see his face, still holding onto his arms. There were streams of tears running from his ice-blue eyes, his cheekbones glistening where the cascade had been smudged across his face by the material of my shirt. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and then, as I looked into his eyes I saw that he too had shared my heartache. He had experienced the same grief as me. I didn't just lose him, he lost me. I was touched to see how much he valued our friendship, how much (although he didn't always show it) he truly cared, a man seemingly void of all emotion, felt so much for me.

Some tears had mingled with the trickle of blood emerging from his nose (although I was glad to see his nose was still perfectly straight), a reminder of the sight which had lay before me on the pavement exactly three years before.

Now however, it meant happier things.

I had my consulting detective back.

I had my best friend back.

I had my Sherlock Holmes.

'Tea?' he asked in the deep, velvet voice I had so missed.

'That would be lovely' I replied with a chuckle.

I returned to my chair as he prepared the tea. Both chairs once again had occupants. The atmosphere changed, the flat became a home and I had my Holmes.

An explanation could wait as I was perfectly content, in fact, overjoyed just to be reunited with my best friend. I felt complete again. The missing part of my soul was Sherlock Holmes, and I think I can safely say, I was the missing part of his.


End file.
